CHAPTER 60: KILLING WOLVES

The forest grew denser with every step.

The trees, immense and ancient, stood like pillars of a natural temple that had long forgotten the touch of man. Their thick bark was marked by deep veins, like the wrinkles of a living being who had slumbered for millennia. The canopies intertwined so high and thick that the sky, once visible through occasional gaps, now hid completely. Only a filtered greenish light escaped through the cracks—pale, trembling, as if hesitant to disturb what resided there.

The silence was absolute, oppressive. An acoustic void thickening around Aziz like an invisible cloak.

The air was saturated with the scent of moss, rotting leaves, and moisture. The ground beneath his feet yielded slightly, spongy from accumulated organic matter. Each breath pulled the forest’s weight into his lungs—humidity, fungus, decay. But beneath it all... there was something more.

Something that did not belong solely to the earth or the trees.

Aziz felt it.

Not only with his nose, but with his skin, his bones, his soul. A primal instinct whispered in the oldest corners of his mind—an ancestral memory, from when man was still prey.

The scent of flesh. Of animal pheromones. Of marked territory. Of clotted blood and recent death.

The trail—or what remained of it—had vanished minutes ago between roots as thick as petrified serpents and vines that coiled around stones as if they had a will of their own. But Aziz didn’t need trails. Not here.

His steps were silent, precise. His senses, sharp as blades. His face exposed, white hair tousled by the leaves brushing the top of his head. His light armor, shaped from darkened leather and black steel plates, fit his body perfectly. No ornament. No insignia. Only function.

The warrior wasn’t seeking glory. He hunted.

Then he noticed the first signs.

A bone. Short, broken. Gnawed.

Then another. Larger. Thicker.

Jaws. Ribs. Vertebrae. Some small—rabbits, rodents, birds. Others far too large to ignore. Human bones. Many of them. Some clean, polished by time and moss. Others still stained with dried blood, dark crusts clinging to the cracks.

There lay the remains of hunters, adventurers, foolish outsiders who had crossed these lands without knowing their cost.

The trees seemed to watch him now. Twisted trunks. Gnarled branches. Silhouettes of silent nightmares.

And the silence...

Was wrong.

No birds. No insect buzz. Not even the whisper of wind through the leaves.

The forest itself seemed to be holding its breath.

And then came the first howl.

"Auuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh...!"

Distant. Wailing. Drawn out like a lament crawling down his spine. A sound that did not belong to the civilized world—it belonged to the night. To darkness.

Then another.

"AUUUUUUUHHH!"

Closer. Deeper. And with it, a sharp sensation, like a blade of steel slicing the air.

Aziz stopped.

Not out of fear.

But out of respect.

He drew a deep breath.

His fingers moved calmly to the space beside him, activating the dimensional compartment. A cold glow, almost a whisper, cut through the air, and the sword appeared—a long, dark, sharp blade with faded runes that pulsed softly at his touch.

The weight was perfect. The balance, instinctive. It was like holding an extension of his own body.

He turned the hilt slowly, feeling the steel awaken.

A smile crept onto his face.

Not of arrogance.

Of excitement.

He could feel them approaching.

First, the sound. Light steps over dead leaves. Then, eyes.

Two. Then four. Then eight. Twelve. Fifteen.

Fifteen pairs of glowing eyes. Spread in a semicircle, surrounding him among the thick trunks. The creatures’ bodies were still hidden, but the eyes... they burned in the shadows.

Low growls vibrated in the air like muffled drums. The sound of tension. Of contained hatred.

"Heh... found you," murmured Aziz, his gaze as sharp as his blade.

One of the smaller wolves stepped forward, muscles tense. Its snout twitched rapidly, sniffing. Eyes narrowed. Assessing.

"Grrrrrhhh..."

Aziz didn’t move.

He watched.

Calculated.

The beasts were not normal. They were larger. Too strong for ordinary wolves. Fur dark gray like thick smoke, muscles rippling beneath the skin. Many bore scars—marks of battles. Chipped teeth. Gazes that did not belong to mere animals.

They were intelligent. Enraged.

And they hated him.

And then she came.

The leader.

The shadow detached from the trees like a living storm. Her presence doubled the tension in the air. A deep, guttural growl preceded her. The other creatures parted. She was the matriarch. The alpha. The killer.

Immense. Thick fur, scarred by old and fresh wounds. One ear torn. The side of her chest still stained with dried blood. Her eyes... her eyes burned with pure hatred.

Not the hatred of mindless fury.

But the hatred of loss. Of vengeance. Of protection.

Aziz recognized it instantly.

The pack was hers. Children. Followers. Disciples.

With her presence, the others realigned. Like soldiers under command.

And then, she howled.

"GRRAAAWWUUUHHH!"

The sound cut through the forest like a blade of terror. It wasn’t a call—it was a sentence.

They attacked.

No warning. No hesitation. Like arrows fired from an invisible bow, ripping through the forest gloom with claws, fangs, and hungry eyes. A coordinated, instinctive, brutal attack—no words, no strategy, just pure predatory impulse.

The first came from the right flank—fast, ravenous, muscles rippling under black fur, eyes wide, thick strands of saliva dripping from an open jaw. A guttural growl announced its fury, but it was too late.

Another surged from the left in sync, as ferocious as its brother. Its paws sank into the damp ground, throwing dead leaves into the air. Its hot, humid breath, laced with dried blood, filled the space between both attacks.

Two more leapt simultaneously, emerging from the front—midair, like winged beasts, though wingless. The moment froze for a blink.

Aziz spun.

CHAK—SHRRAK!

A wet, final sound.

The first wolf’s skull burst like a ripe fruit under the sword’s precise blow. Bones shattered, blood sprayed in a fan, warm splashes staining his face. Brain fragments dripped down the blade’s deep cut.

In a continuous, fluid movement—pure reflex shaped by instinct and training—Aziz twisted his wrist. The blade traced a gleaming arc.

The second wolf’s throat was opened by a lateral slash—clean, almost elegant. Blood spurted like a red line drawn in the air, a fleeting stroke between life and death. The creature tried to howl, but only blood bubbles escaped.

The third was still midair when the steel met it—an inevitable meeting, predestined. The blade entered through its flank, slicing through muscle, ribs, and stopping only when it hit the spine. A hoarse sound escaped the wolf’s throat, a mix of pain and surprise. The beast shrieked, contorting violently, its body twisting in agony before crashing to the ground like a puppet cut from its strings.

"GRAAAAAHHH!"

A primal scream, full of pain, fury, and terror.

The others—five, six, maybe more—instinctively backed off. For a brief second, they hesitated.

A single second. That was enough.

Enough time for Aziz to breathe.

But not to stop.

Four leapt at once—like shadows driven by impulse, fearless, only desperate.

Aziz ducked, swinging his sword in a wide horizontal arc with superhuman force and precision.

Two were cut in half.

Literally.

The steel sang through the air, slicing skin, bone, and innards like a divine blade. The severed halves still twitched, muscles spasming in a grotesque final dance before collapsing to the ground, entrails slithering like pink serpents.

A third bit into Aziz’s shoulder plate—the impact echoed metallic, a muffled crack. But the metal held. Teeth broke. The creature shrieked in pain but had no time to flee.

Aziz spun again, using the momentum. With a brutal motion, he smashed the wolf’s snout against the ground. The force of the blow reverberated through the soil.

CRACK.

A dry snap.

The unmistakable sound of breaking bones.

The beast trembled, shuddered... and stopped.

Another came from behind—silent, treacherous. But Aziz didn’t look. He didn’t need to. His body already knew. His instinct sensed it.

He stabbed his sword backward in a precise, merciless strike.

The steel pierced the creature’s chest like a spear. A muffled shriek echoed through the forest—a sound almost human, filled with pain, as if the beast’s soul regretted being born.

And then she charged.

The matriarch.

With fury.

With everything.

Aziz spun again, eyes gleaming with focus. He raised the blade at the exact moment of impact.

The she-wolf crashed into him like living thunder.

The blow dragged him backward, his feet carving deep furrows into the wet ground. Earth, leaves, and mud exploded in all directions, the world trembling around them.

She slammed against a tree with force, the trunk groaning with impact. Fell to the side, body tense, panting. But even so...

She rose.

She didn’t feel pain.

Not anymore.

Not after so long ruling by strength.

Only hatred remained.

Two survivors tried to follow her. One from the front, one from behind, still believing that maybe, together, they could change fate.

Aziz split them like dry twigs.

Without hesitation. Without retreat.

Now his armor was covered in blood—layers upon layers of hot, viscous fluid. Shoulders, chest, arms—everything dyed red. The leaves beneath his feet were no longer green.

They were crimson.

The ground had become an altar.

An altar to death.

Three wolves still alive watched him. Eyes wide. Tremors shook their wounded bodies. One limped, barely able to stand on its front paw.

But the matriarch...

Did not retreat.

She stepped forward.

Each step a sacrifice.

Her right flank hung at a strange angle, a deep wound tearing the flesh. Her hind leg barely touched the ground. Her breath came in wet gasps, each one dragging a liquid sound from her chest.

But her eyes...

Her eyes were pure determination.

She would fight to the death.

Aziz stood his ground.

Not out of arrogance.

But out of respect.

He raised the sword slowly, letting the silence return—heavy, absolute. The forest watched. The world seemed to hold its breath.

Then, the three remaining wolves stepped forward.

Even wounded, even staggering, they placed themselves in front of the matriarch.

They growled low, baring their teeth. Their trembling bodies betrayed fear, but their eyes said something else: they wouldn’t let her fall alone.

For an instant, Aziz hesitated.

Not out of mercy.

But because he recognized the loyalty in those animals’ eyes.

The she-wolf now growled more softly. A broken, irregular sound...

Almost sad.

And then, she stopped.

Still.

Her eyes were no longer on Aziz.

They looked behind him.

The growl ceased.

Her body trembled.

A subtle whimper escaped—not a warning, but a lament.

Aziz felt it.

The cold.

Cutting. Invisible.

Like a blade pressed to his nape, tracing the line between life and death.

He turned.

Nothing.

Nothing visible.

But he was no longer alone.

His hairs stood on end.

The heat of battle drained, replaced by a viscous, suffocating sensation.

The blood that once boiled now felt thicker, slower, as if time itself bent around him.

The air had changed.

The scent had changed.

It was no longer just blood and wet earth.

Now there was something more.

Death had a presence.

And with it...

Something beyond death.

Among the trees, where the shadows stretched too long.

In the exact spot where light could not reach.

Someone—or something—was watching.

The she-wolf stepped back.

Short, cautious steps.

Her eyes never left the fixed point. She no longer feared Aziz.

She feared that.

Aziz, without lowering his guard, assumed a defensive stance.

Feet planted.

Chest raised.

Blade forward.

His heart raced—yes—but for another reason.

The smile that formed on his face was real.

No mask.

No madness.

It was ecstasy.

The ecstasy of a predator.

Of a warrior.

Of someone born to confront the impossible.